


i thought this was a two-player game!

by joeri



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Baking, Bickering, Blood Drinking, Fluff and Humor, Grief/Mourning, Jealousy, LARPing, M/M, Pre-Game Personalities (New Dangan Ronpa V3), Rated T for language, Saioumota Ship Week, Studying, Underage Smoking, Vampires, Werewolves, really just rated t because pre-games are bastards
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-22 05:10:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15574488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joeri/pseuds/joeri
Summary: saioumota ship week 2018or: three boys dream of lives not so unlike their own





	1. desire we won't remember

**Author's Note:**

> im gonna try to write something once a day even if its small and isnt that good. i want it to be a good writing exercise. here's hoping you guys like it!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **pregame** /postgame/afterlife
> 
> day 1 give it up for day 1!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> i wanted to explicitly only write fluff for saioumota week as a challenge to myself but... we know me. i've had a lovely fixation on pre-game lately so i decided what the hell, why not. in my head this fic is more humorous than nasty but, well. these boys really are nasty!

“D… do you think that’s him?” Ouma asks, a set of quavering lungs making everything he says sound wheezy and weak.

Licking his lips, heart awash with the cheap sensation of excitement, Saihara nods. That’s him alright. That’s the boy Saihara’s kept his eyes on ever since he let it slip last week in class. Ares dressed in navy blues and bloody reds kicked a desk on his way out, grousing, “once I’m in _Danganronpa_ none of this shit will exist.” Saihara had listened in close from the back of the room. His eyes bloomed with a manic interest and he stalked softly after, never too far behind.

For weeks, Saihara had never been too far behind.

His ticket stood lonesome at dusk, overlooking the schoolyard. Momota passed a cigarette between him and his shadow, spat colorful phlegm into the grout, breathed low and hard like sucking the helium from a balloon—

“Oi, _you,”_ he says, catching both boys off guard as they peek through the door leading out into the roof.

Ouma shivers.

“H… he knows we’re here?” he stammers before Saihara marches forward; an uncharacteristic amount of force is behind his step.

It’s not until Momota snaps his chin over his shoulder that he spots the way Saihara’s eyes absorb the orange light like black holes— swirling with a despair he knows in ways most intimate. Momota barely takes notice to the way Ouma’s scrambling up behind him like some sad pooch. They’re both fidgeting messes but Saihara’s beaming at him like he’s the sun.

And he’s never been looked at like _that_ before.

“Th’ fuck do ya want?” Momota asks— asks rather than shoving Saihara straight into the concrete which is what his arms are itching to do. “I’ve seen you following me the fuck around _Kusohara,_ why don’t you crawl back int’a your uncle’s basement and jack it to Saya no Uta for the twelfth time.”

Saihara sweats, swallows down the desire to express that Saya no Uta is one of Urobuchi Gen’s least understood works, and actually tugs his hat up to see. Momota does not know the honor he is being treated to when Saihara Shuichi wants to see him with both eyes.

“You said you’re applying for Danganronpa 53,” Saihara says and he does not stutter.

Ego swells and Momota grins, almost eating his cigarette by the way he bites the end of his cig.

“What the fuck do you know about that?” he asks, cadence tenebrous but eyes afire with mirth.

Ouma glances between the two of them, fingers fastened to Saihara’s sleeve as he takes in the other man— Momota is a whole foot taller and looks like the kind of guy that could easily break him in half. He swallows easy, wonders what it’d be like to be killed by him and thinks it could be better than anything he could do to himself.

That’s really why Ouma’s here after all.

“We know that you have… connections,” Ouma chimes in with, flinching deer-like and frankly when Momota’s gaze drops on him, anvil-heavy.

“I have connections?”

Momota’s expression once blank and strikingly contemplative warps into a devilish kind of laugh. There’s no satisfaction in it. A thinly veiled anger bubbles under the surface just so, and he lassos his arms around the railing behind him.

“So _that’s_ what you two fuckers want from me. You want me to get you in,” Momota guffaws now with knowing. “Shiiit, and here I thought that y’all wanted a new friend.”

The words come out more biting than maybe he meant for them to. 

Saihara’s arms jiggle like jackhammers and he clenches his fists like they’ll come apart otherwise.

“Please get us in, K-Kaito,” he says, and Momota lifts his cig only to put it out on the brim of his hat, watching the fabric fray; Saihara winces but doesn’t shrink back.

“ _Kaito?_ Don’t get so fucking familiar with me, Kusohara. You’re a hundred years too early to think you can be fresh with me,” Momota spits, the cosmos itself wrenching in his stomach as he says so. “You and I will _never_ friends.”

The concept of not being friends does nothing for Saihara, really. His frame wobbles and trembles at the idea of being so _very fucking close_ to his dream. Pale white fingers clenching Momota’s jacket, Saihara gets ready to beg.

“You’re not confident you can win.”

Momota and Saihara both turn toward Ouma, who’s words have just landed squarely between Momota’s ribs. They sit and burn through. Momota blinks, marinating on the mere notion, and the holes ache at him. Huh. That's funny. He doesn't know why that wounds him.

Scowling, the delinquent is moments away from tossing his cold cigarette into Ouma’s greasy hair until Ouma wrenches a recorder out from his bag and presses the play button.

The audio’s staticky. Momota’s voice is clear though beyond the echoes of traffic lingering past.

_“I love your business but, I’m not sure I should keep doing this—”_

_“Did I fucking—”_

Coughs ring out, heavy and guttural.

_“Hah, did I fucking ask for your opinion, Amami? I give you the money, you give me the shit. It’s not that fucking hard.”_

_“…you’re dying, dude.”_

Labored breathing ensues.

_“Yeah. Yeah I know—”_

Momota strikes Ouma’s hand, knocking the recorder into the concrete and yanking him up by his buttons. The crack of the device into the ground draws attention from no one, acting only as emphatic punctuation.

“You had him record some shit for you, you _ugly orphaned bitch?”_

“You don’t want to help us because you don’t think y-you could compete with us,” Ouma maintains, triumphantly meeting Momota’s eyes with his own, knowing he’s being torn limb from limb in Momota's mind right now.

Saihara tugs at Momota’s sleeve.

“Please, _please_ just get me in,” begs Saihara, the marked use of _me_ driving an anxious stare out of Ouma. “I’ll do anything, M… Momota-…sama, if you can get me in. If you can make an exception f-for _me_ at least, I’ll—”

He opens his palms and allows Ouma to crash into the floor, then he turns and looks at Saihara. His gaze is withering and he laughs.

“Oh, flattery, is it? First you follow me, then you insult me, now you want to suck my dick, kid?”

Ouma groans from the floor, “i-it’s not insulting. That’s… a conversation of you consulting with a drug dealer. This is blackmail.”

Momota’s smile wanes. The expression on Ouma’s face turns vacantly gleeful as he brushes the dirt off himself, ogling the dip in Momota’s shirt where his muscles are visible.

“I’m well aware that you could kill me, Momota _-chan,”_ he says in a way that Momota grows gooseflesh over. “In fact, I was hoping that you would.”

Him too, Momota discovers. Him too. They all have that same blackness in their eyes, deadened nerves and taste for poison. Others of his kind.

Breathing in deeply, Momota tells himself off for believing in fate. Such a romantic ideal and yet… the ache in his chest jeers at him as if to say, _you're ready to die alone, right? I sure hope so._

Casting his eyes between the two of them— these two boys each gnawing at him for different reasons, Momota scoffs in submission, chucking his cigarette into Ouma’s hair anyways.

“You’re fucking crazy, dude.”

Saihara grins happily. Ouma flicks the cigarette off of him and onto Saihara’s shoe.

“Maybe but… this season won’t be boring, right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (momota voice) yea guys my dad works at spike chunsoft he told me i could be in the next danganronpa
> 
> kuso-hara : shittyhara would be a good translation maybe  
> saya no uta : a very gorey and fucked up visual novel, i wouldnt recommend looking it up


	2. intergalactic stand-off! fight for the fate of humanity!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _comfort_ / **make believe** /growth
> 
> day 2!! here comes the much promised fluff, brought to you by: "these two are 5 years old"
> 
> part of it edges into comfort in the first part and i will admit its a bit more... oumota heavy but shuichi Is here to tell them to stop destroying the fucking house and he even plays along a little so !!! hopefully this is ok

Ouma made the egregious mistake of moping around Momota. Moping around Momota results in a 99.9% chance of him butting his nose into your business to find out why. It’s just in his nature— hero complex and all. Ouma should understand this. In fact he does, but the constant irritant is how every time Ouma thinks the outcome is going to be different and yet, without fail, Momota is waking him up with breakfast and putting on the charm as if Ouma really _didn’t_ see this coming.

Isn’t the definition of insanity going through the same motions again and again and expecting different results? That’s what dating Momota Kaito feels like— like insanity.

For all of this frustration, Momota feels the same. Ouma can never accept Momota’s goodwill and charity unless through gritted teeth; it doesn’t matter who’s. It’s why Momota doesn’t understand that keeping an achingly patient smile with his _dear boyfriend_ is never really going to work.

“C’mon Kichi, I made you pancakes with extra sugar and strawberries. The least you can do is look at my sick plating technique before you decide you don’t want it.”

Ouma really doesn’t know how cool you can plate some fucking pancakes, but being waited on when he knows it’s an act of comfort is disgusting. He waves his small, pale hand over his shoulder and snuggles further into the cold side of the bed where Saihara’s no longer laying. It helps him to feel further sorry for himself in the sanctity of his mind.

“Momo-chan, I hate pancakes.”

“You fucking do not is the thing. You’re just being difficult. Look— Look I even— The fuckin’ strawberries are cut up and placed together to look like hearts!” Momota cries.

“Gross.”

Pressing one thick hand against his face and yanking his eyelids down, Momota balances the tray on his other hand expertly despite the ire coursing through him. He breathes in superhard and tries to speak levelly.

“We _both_ saw that how-to on Pinterest to make heart-shaped strawberries and _you said_ you wished Shuichi would make those for you. I made them.”

A scoff falls out of Ouma’s mouth hard and fast as he bundles the covers up around his neck.

“Yeah, Sai-chan, not you.”

Both of Momota’s hands squeeze the big stainless steel tray, less in an act of protecting the food and more in an act of holding himself back from throwing it.

“Do you really think there’s a better cook in this house than me!? What I just made for you is _actually_ the cutest dish I have ever seen! You should be calling me the fuckin’ super high school level boyfriend.”

“Mmmmmmm,” Ouma hums, his eyes opening up for mere seconds to find that light has indeed begun spilling into their shared bedroom through the tiny holes and crevices of the blinds adorning the windows.

Mulling it over, as if there was any doubt in his head, Ouma contemplates sitting upright and just tossing the tray into the entertainment center.

Ouma feels merciful and he ducks his head under the covers.

“I hate strawberries,” he insists.

“Oh, my god.”

Momota slams the tray down upon the bedside table, knocking over some of Saihara’s pill bottles and Ouma’s Nintendo 3ds. He plops down at the side of the bed now, his ass seated squarely beneath where Ouma’s lies. The guy sleeps so curled up in the fetal position that Momota doesn’t think he’s ever seen his legs fully sprawled out to the edge of the bed. Perhaps with his height, he never would anyways.

Gazing to and fro between his exquisite brunch creation (it is 12:46 pm by now) and his agonizingly difficult boyfriend, Momota divines a plan and crosses his legs with a smug smile.

“Well, that’s fine, Kichi. If you don’t want it, I guess I’ll just have to eat it all and leave none of it for you.”

“That’s literally what I’m asking you to do,” Ouma says.

“Ah, but I made some for Shuichi too! When he comes home for his lunch break, the two of us will eat it together and you don’t wanna be all left out, do you?”

This remark comes out more frigid than Momota surely finds it, and he isn’t sure what to make of it when Ouma goes mute. Crossing his arms a little tighter and shimmying his torso against Ouma’s prone body, Momota smirks.

“Ahhhh, see?”

“You’d do that…?”

Momota tilts his head.

“What now?”

The sound of Ouma’s voice breaking up into a shambling ghost of its former self still tugs at Momota’s heart sometimes, even though he should have the knowledge by now to know that it’s fake. He can’t suppress a shiver when Ouma beckons, “you’d leave me out like that— leave me out like I always feel?”

Pressing his palm to the bed and crawling halfway over him, Momota looms with worry.

“Hey— Kichi, don’t say that. I was only kiddin’. C’mon, you know I wouldn’t do that to you. I just wanted you to get out of bed.”

Ouma doesn’t move an inch and Momota takes hold of what feels like Ouma’s shoulder, joggling him beneath the white pinstriped covers.

“Kichi—”

“I’m so sad, Momo-chan,” he whispers, barely audible through the quilt cocoon he’s built for himself. “I’m so sad, can you do me a favor?”

Momota sweats but he nods, emphatically, like the loyal golden retriever he is on the inside.

“Yeah, buddy, what do you need?”

His boyfriend sniffles, shuffles beneath the covers, and tearfully whimpers, “could you get Alexa to play Toto Africa?”

Seizing the pillow once indented by Saihara’s head, Momota smothers Ouma.

“I could fucking kill you is what I could fucking do.”

“M-Momo-chan—!!” he wails. “That’s not very nice! You can’t murder your boyfriend, your other boyfriend is a detective!!”

* * *

It clicks in Momota’s head, what he’s gotta do to get Ouma out of this funk. Halfway killing him with the pillow was fun and all but he’s dating a four year old, apparently. He’s gotta think like him, which unbeknownst to him, isn’t _quite_ as different as he’d like to think. Momota stalks about the flat, gathering up his supplies. He begins to drop couch cushions all over the floor, leading them from the bedroom and through the kitchen and hallways.

The tray of pancakes now sits on the kitchen counter. The butter Momota’d plopped onto the top has melted and run off the edges long ago. The pancakes soak in the syrup coldly and the strawberries lay in a messy heap. He should refrigerate it but he’s lost in his brand new idea.

Fishing through the linen closet, Momota ties a fresh set of sheets around his throat like a cape. In mere seconds he is zooming through the house like a monster, launching his six foot, one hundred and sixty-three pound body into the bed. Ouma _screams._

“Up and attem, Kichi! We gotta go on an adventure,” he roars, scooping up the blanket and yanking Ouma up into his arms.

Ouma kicks and beats his fists, wiggling around in Momota’s arms like an angry caterpillar, or an unruly burrito.

“ _What_ have I said about just picking me up—”

“There’s no time!! This entire space station is filling with lava!”

“Lav— …You cannot be serious,” Ouma levels.

“What?”

Momota tugs the comforter down from over Ouma’s head to find his boyfriend more stone-faced than he’s seen in a while. God, the subtle beauty in Ouma’s boyish face never ceases to charm Momota, even when he’s playing constant chess with his emotions. The only way, Momota’s found, to deal with this is to flip the game board.

“You never played ‘the floor is lava,’ Kichi?” he asks, breaking character momentarily.

Squirming out of Momota’s arms, tender but too tight, Ouma balances on the bed beside him in his checker print boxers and one of Saihara’s t-shirts. He brushes himself off (as if Momota’s just gotten him filthy or something.)

“You can’t possibly think _that’s_ still fun, Momo-chan. How embarrassing,” he derides.

With a softer grin, the kind Ouma can’t deny his belly turns into bumblebees over, Momota holds up another sheet— it’s black and purple paisley, and went to Ouma’s old mattress before they’d all decided to share a bed.

“You can be the captain,” Momota says, and Ouma hides his blush through a sharp smirk as he snatches it.

“Captain, Momo-chan? You’ve got it all wrong!”

Tying the sheet around his neck, Ouma leaps from the bed and onto the dresser, causing everything sitting on top of it to totter and wobble. He points back at Momota, simpering all the while.

“I’m charmed, really. You have been so good to me, Momo-chan— taking care of me like you have.”

Ouma waves his cape through the air.

“But who do you think _released the lava on this spaceship?”_

Gasping, Momota clenches his fist and feels the universe echo behind his wail.

“Ouma Kokichi!! I _knew_ it was you… I knew it had to have been you all along.”

Returning the gesture, their fingers almost touch from across the bedroom’s divide.

“You were the mastermind all along. For all of humanity— no, for all of _the universe_ , this luminary of the stars will take you down!”

When Ouma cackles, it comes out rapid and hyena-high.

“Momota Kaito-chan, come and get me if you _can!!”_

The dresser creaks and groans as Momota leaps on top of it. All of the hair brushes and deodorant sticks crash onto the floor.

* * *

Saihara walks into his house to find it being torn apart. Within seconds, he hears the shattering sound of something that _has_ to be worth more money than the two of them readily can give him to cover it, and he’s rifling through his satchel for a Xanax.

Instead of calling out to them he waits at the front door, tugging his shoes off once he’s swallowed the pills down dryly. Like some kind of makeshift hopscotch board, pillows line the halls leading into the kitchen and the living room, and Saihara is blindsided when he spots both of his maniacs darting past him with nerf guns in tow.

_Hey, **didn’t Saihara get those thrown out after they broke a window fighting with them?**_

“H-hey!! What’s going on!?” he shouts, barely audible over their own commotion.

Utterly disregarding the would-be lava, Saihara marches into the tv room to find Ouma is on top of the entertainment center. His heart sweats as it sways back and forth. Momota shows no fear, pointing what appears to be a— _is that a miniature turret but… shooting nerf bullets?_

“Stand down, Captain Momota Kaito-chan… I’ve got the high ground!” proclaims Ouma boisterously, unattentive to the way the picture frames beside him have fallen face down.

“You would leave me no choice, Ouma Kokichi… you would betray everyone, even your crown and country—”

“Foolish!” Ouma replies in kind, angling his single nerf pistol, a bright purple and yellow one straight between Momota’s eyes. “I _built_ this country, I _am_ it’s crown!”

Saihara has not the foggiest fucking idea what any of this means. Momota scoffs.

“A villain like you would say that… then it’s up to me!”

The bullet hits, collides with Ouma’s arm and he dramatically flops back against the wall, the pistol collapsing from his grip. It smashes into the carpet. Saihara is going to lose it because that is a thousand dollar television beneath where Ouma is sitting and the doors on this entertainment center are glass.

“Hey— Kokichi—!!”

“Tch… you’ve gone soft, Captain,” Ouma whimpers fakely, holding his arm with a tremble. “Aiming to disarm but not kill? Don’t you know how many thousands I’ve destroyed, and will continue to destroy because of your weakness?”

Mouth twitching up into a bittersweet smile, Momota grunts from his crouched position across the room.

“Weakness? Hah, that’s where you’re wrong, Ouma,” Momota proudly exclaims, standing upon the bare springs of the couch; (Saihara has no idea where those couch cushions are but if Momota breaks these springs he will damn sure buy some new ones). “A hero does not kill. You will live to see a trial back down on Earth. I will end this before the lava absorbs this entire space station. I bet it on my title as luminary of the stars!”

Maybe… letting these two play out their fantasy is the best way to let this die, Saihara thinks.

He changes his mind when Ouma pulls from beneath his “cape” what appears to be a giant nerf bomb.

_Oh, who’s money was used to buy **this**?_

“We’ll see about that, Captain Momota Kaito-chan.”

Momota flinches back in mock-agony.

“Ouma!! Don’t! You’ll kill us all!”

Noticing how the ceiling fan above them is spinning rapidly, imagining each and every one of those little bullets being smacked around the room at warp speed has Saihara moving on his own, hopping onto one of the cushions between them and nearly slipping onto his ass as he does so.

Saihara waves his arms to gain balance and keeps them waving to gain Ouma’s attention.

“K… Ouma-kun, don’t do it!!” Saihara demands, feeling a strangeness in his mouth when he calls Ouma by his last name again.

Both the eyes of the hero and the villain are on him now, and Momota feels every nerve in his body on fire all at once. His hand reaches out toward Saihara.

“Shuichi, we have to get into one of the space pods! There’s no time to reason with him any longer!”

“Ahahahaha, what a development, Captain Momota Kaito-chan… it seems like the only thing saving us both from mutually assured destruction is Commander Shumai,” Ouma chuckles.

That line is almost enough to cause a break in character in Momota, who really can’t stand that dorky little nickname and gets hateful twinges of jealousy every time Ouma says it. He grits his teeth and aims his gun back up with both hands.

“His _name_ is Commander _Saihara_ of the Intergalactic—”

“Hey hey, Commander Shumai,” Ouma interrupts. “You can join me. We can rule the galaxy together if only we get rid of this whelp. If we can ensure he can’t report back to the home base, anything is within our reach.”

Ouma reaches his bony fingers out toward Saihara, wiggling them in a sultry ‘come hither’ as he grins wildly.

“Together, we could be unstoppable.”

Glancing back between the two of them— _has Momota been jumping on all of this furniture in his slippers?_ —Momota stood on a mere skeleton of what their couch used to be, and Ouma sat crouched upon the wobbling case holding way too many of their valuables, Saihara has to make an executive decision.

He really needs to get Ouma down from there or he’s going to die from an aneurysm in the brain.

“Ouma-kun… I-I mean…” Saihara fumbles. “K-Kokichi… do you really think we could—”

“Shuichi, no,” Momota whispers, the words merely a ghost against his fading back as he approaches Ouma steadily; Saihara thinks he can hear the sound of Momota’s breaking heart, but this is his only choice.

Saihara has to play the part.

Lowering the bomb down to his side, Ouma smiles sweetly as though he hadn’t just proposed the destruction of Earth and humanity itself. His hand stretches out toward Saihara— one villain to another across a sea of molten lava.

“Oh, we could, _Commander Shumai,_ nothing is out of our grasp.”

Momota’s finger trembles on the trigger, having the aim on Saihara’s back so clear but unable to take the shot. He can’t. How could he ever? Even if the love of his life has betrayed him like this… even if the entire world has been forsaken, he wheezes and lets the gun fall to the wayside.

Maybe Ouma was right. Maybe he was weaker… too weak to stop what would soon be the destruction of the world.

“Dammit,” Momota spat, beating his knees with his fists. “Damn you, Ouma Kokichi!”

Saihara wraps his fingers around Ouma’s hand dangerously slow and uses all of his force to yank him off the television stand. The supreme leader slams into the lava.

“Alright. Both of you clean this flat, _now.”_

The only noise Ouma makes from the floor is a low frequency hum that Saihara thinks might be apologetic. Momota frowns and steps down from the couch in a manner almost dainty, setting the nerf turret down with more care than he's treated all of their furniture today.

“Y-you got it, honey.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had so much fun writing this sorry for going overboard


	3. freeze any left-overs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nicknames/ **sweets** /pets
> 
> day 3!! wow im still keeping up. this one is more saiouma heavy, which is strange because i've never written saiouma before. but momota is still here and dating them and is going to have some cake when he's feeling better!!

Momota lie in bed, sleeping off what could very well be the worst migraine that he’s ever had. For all of Ouma’s provocations, even he’s begun to sweat at the prospect of his boyfriend falling iller than him or Saihara know how to help with. Saihara insists that the two of them leave him alone, letting the door behind them shut with a gentle click as they tip toe away.

Ouma insists otherwise.

“I’ve… never heard of this dessert before,” Saihara begins, squinting at the massive ingredient list required for such a treat known as… Baked Alaska.

His eyes scan across Ouma’s laptop, open up on FoodNetwork’s delightful website full of recipes and other cooking tips. Half of the recipe is nigh impossible to see, what with the giant red bar reading “Please turn off your AdBlocker” blotting out a good third of the browser. Saihara begins clicking around to remedy this while Ouma fumbles about a jug of vegetable oil, watching it slide across the kitchen counter away from him once he drops it down. It teeters off the opposite edge dangerously.

“ _Kokichi,”_ Saihara warns.

“Sai-chan, do _not_ tell me how to do my job!” he says, and he does not take any measures to pull the bottle back from the counter’s edge; Saihara does.

“You don’t need this much. Just get the spray bottle of canola oil,” says Saihara, turning the bottle of vegetable oil back upright. “We only need the insides of the bowl to be coated lightly.”

Hefting up a chair from the dining room and parking it directly in front of the fridge (with an agonizingly loud _thunk),_ Ouma climbs on top to get the best possible look into the freezer.

“Now for ice cream, ice cream! Momo-chan screams for ice cream!”

Seemingly ignoring Saihara’s advice, Ouma licks his lips and wraps his little gremlin fingers around every tub of ice cream they own— Momota’s favorite Phish Food (by Ben & Jerry’s), Ouma’s favorite rainbow sherbet, and Saihara’s favorite mint chocolate chip.

Saihara decides to take to preparing what he can, rolling his eyes and cracking open a few eggs; he separates the whites into a small bowl for use later. This will be used to create a… meringue. Saihara won’t dare Google this, a little more than insecure about not knowing what these things are. Momota really _is_ the cook of the house, and lord knows he would sooner chow down on instant ramen before bother making… whatever this is supposed to be when they’re done.

Tucking one tub of ice cream beneath his chin and the other two in his arms, Ouma hops down and juggles the three onto the counter, not really too careful to not knock over anything else. The bag of sugar doesn’t move an inch but Ouma offers a blank stare as he watches the carton of eggs collide with the floor.

_**Crack!** _

Mouth agape in a silent scream, Saihara feels all the muscles in his body go taut and rigid at once, as if he’s been smacked between the shoulder blades with a baseball bat. All of this waste—

“Whoopsie!”

Strangely, Saihara thought for two meager seconds that nothing could’ve made him feel angrier in this moment, and then the sound of Ouma’s giggling rippled by.

“Koki—”

“I got this! Don’t worry Sai-chan, I know what I’m doing!”

Ouma scrambles past the chair he’s sat in front of the fridge, barely able to squeeze past it from behind the counter. His forehead smacks into the freezer door on his way past and Saihara finds he can only suppress his agitation by finding amusement in that divine retribution at least. He makes a throaty grunt of a laugh that Ouma can scarcely hear as he runs to grab something from the bathroom. Not trusting him to actually do anything useful today but make a mess, Saihara plucks the carton up and disposes of it. He's mindful to not get his socks soaked in yolk.

On his hands and knees, Saihara wipes the rest of the floor to the best of his abilities— just a cold rag and some water is fine, right? Noting the yellowish stains in his pajama bottoms now, he exhales pure agony and nearly rips them off in a fit of frustration. Shielding his eyes with a tight hand, Saihara purses his lips.

“Kokichi, I don’t think—”

Making his way back into the kitchen, Ouma’s _now_ sporting a pair of sunglasses and he interrupts Saihara on his way back in as he holds a single (1) square of toilet paper roll between his index and middle finger.

“You can thank me later,” he says.

Regarding what is probably the most useless thing he’s ever been given with disdain, Saihara tucks it into his pocket and clears his throat a single volume notch higher than per usual.

“Kokichi, this recipe takes a long time, maybe we should pick something—”

Ouma has tilted the bottle of vegetable oil into the bowl (which is barely visible to him who is now wearing sunglasses indoors), and Saihara yanks it out of his stupid, chaotic hands.

“No!!! _No!_ That’s not— Kokichi, pay attention to the recipe! It says we have to brush the vegetable oil in!”

“ _What_ did I say about telling me how to do my job, Sai-chan! I am Momo-chan’s dainty housewife, after all. I must cater to him in sickness and in health. And you, as _my_ dainty housewife must also cater to me and help me bake.”

“That…”

Saihara sighs, capping the bottle of oil.

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

Unbeknownst to him, Ouma pouts a bit, chews on his lip and feels his gut flora churn with annoyance. Shoving the bowl toward Saihara, he smiles big like he’s twelve and not at all miffed.

“Maybe I just want to have fun with this! Maybe you don’t have to be so serious all the time!”

The sing-song cadence only makes Ouma’s words come out that much more venomous and Saihara flinches back.

“Ah… did I make you feel like, we can’t have fun?”

Without being able to make out Ouma’s eyes beneath his sunglasses, Saihara can only guess at his true expression. Opening up the tubs of ice cream, quietly and daintily (taking such care that _feels_ sarcastic, somehow), Ouma shrugs and drops dollops of the sherbet into the bowl. The vegetable oil splashes syrupy.

“Godddd, Sai-chan, does everything have to be about you all the time? I’m cooking for my beloved Momo-chan,” he says, as if that’s going to wound Saihara somewhere.

It doesn’t.

“Y-yeah and… you’re making a mess and being irresponsible.”

“It’s not really that big’a deal,” Ouma says in a softer voice. “Those eggs go bad tomorrow, no one’s eaten them in days.”

Blinking, wondering now if there’s some strange method to Ouma’s madness here, Saihara’s mouth turns into a crooked line and he takes one glance back at the recipe. He blanches.

“Oh, you were supposed to… line the bowl with plastic wrap after… the vegetable oil.”

The both of them avoid eye contact with one another, gazing into the marble countertop with their eyes glossing over softly. Ouma flops his hand over top of Saihara’s and smiles sweetly.

“Let’s start over.”

Eventually they get the ice cream part down… sort of. They didn’t have wafer crumbs so Ouma insisted that instead of using those, they could just take graham crackers and crush them up just fine. The ice cream cake sits in the freezer now to set.

Scanning the recipe a few more times, Saihara taps his chin in thought and lets the cogs turn a while.

“Are you sure that this is okay? The recipe calls for vanilla ice cream, chocolate ice cream, and… sorbet.”

“Pffbt, don’t sweat that. It doesn’t matter what kind of ice cream you use for it. Our Baked Alaska will just have different flavors in it— Momo-chan’s Phish Food, Sai-chan’s mint chocolate chip, _Ouma-sama’s rainbow sherbet—”_

“Wait, wait… sherbet?”

“Yeah?”

“But the recipe calls for sorbet.”

“That’s what I said, sherbet.”

A lull in the conversation allows for Saihara to turn toward his boyfriend softly, curling his lips into his mouth in a gentle repression of his confusion. Ouma is steadily whisking the egg whites in with what Saihara had to run to the store and buy just a few minutes ago (cream of tartar), blissfully unaware of what Saihara is saying.

He smacks his lips, _quite_ passive aggressively.

“ _Sher-be **t** ,”_ he enunciates, harsh on the T and clear, “is not the same as _sor-bay.”_

Ouma pauses in his whipping, the words fitting like puzzle pieces in his brain.

“Ohhhh, you’re right, Sai-chan.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Saihara shakes his head.

“Kaito isn’t going to eat this.”

“He better! We’re putting our heart and _soul_ into this!”

“And sherbet,” Saihara sighs.

With time, the eggs are beaten until foamy (once they both realized it would’ve been a lot easier with a mixer on a high setting) and they take the ice cream out of the freezer. The rest of the steps go… somewhat smoothly, with the biggest obstacle yet being the meringue covering the ice cream completely. Ouma delights in poking his finger along the side, writing his name in the meringue while Saihara tries desperately to save this shambling mess.

It’s not like he’s any better at any of this but at least he’s _trying_ to make this come out okay.

Unable to convince Ouma to keep his name out of the cake, Saihara sticks it in the freezer once more.

“This is going to taste horrible,” Saihara moans. “I cannot believe I let you get us both this far in.”

“Don’t say that, Sai-chan! This was all about the experience,” Ouma says, resting his head down upon Saihara’s shoulder as his fingers spider down his arm and take hold of his hand.

As much as Saihara’s groaned the whole time, he can’t hide the small smile when he feels that warmth in his palm.

Yeah, this is all really silly, and maybe this won’t even taste that great, but… 

God, okay, yeah, it’s really hard for Saihara to find _any_ positives behind what they’ve done today. This has been a wreck— so many wasted ingredients and so many trips back and forth to the store, and now they have to wait for the cake to sit for three more hours in the freezer.

But Ouma’s happy. Maybe that’s the only up side. Maybe Momota will appreciate all the work gone into it even if it tastes like garbage and mismatching flavors. It'll taste like love most of all, as strange and terrible as that may be. Sometimes love is really, really bad cake, Saihara thinks.

The two of them retreat into the bedroom and curl up on either side of Momota, thinking now to be the perfect time to throw a midday nap.

Momota does not stir in the slightest, utterly conked out from all the medications he just pumped into his face and blood. The room is pitch black— has to be when you’re suffering from a headache this bad. A wastebasket was sat beside the bed with care. The nausea was terrible but luckily, from what Saihara can see, it’s gone unused. Thinking that he should be much better the next time he’s awake, Saihara smiles and sneaks beneath the blankets beside him. Shimmying into his arms quietly, Saihara glows with warmth enveloping him gentle. Ouma snakes in from the other side, fastening himself to Momota’s back like a little clown jet-pack.

They lie this way until the subtle dinging of the timer goes off, and then they lie this way some more. It really isn’t so important, not more important than this is— Momota’s arms curled soft around Saihara’s body, all but ensured sweet dreams when his nose is buried in his scalp, drinking in the scent of his shampoo. Ouma’s drooling rivers into Momota’s shoulder now, and Momota’s other hand is holding tight to Ouma’s own.

When they’re calm like this, Saihara feels like the little details don’t matter so much. When they’re calm like this, Ouma feels like maybe surrendering himself to these feelings isn’t the worst thing he’s ever done. When they’re calm like this, Momota smiles and forgets what it’s like to ever be sick.

When they wake up, Ouma nearly sets the house on fire with a blowtorch trying to brown the Baked Alaska.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phish Food : Chocolate Ice Cream with Gooey Marshmallow Swirls, Caramel Swirls & Fudge Fish !


	4. eventide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> secrets/ **blood** / _jealousy_
> 
> i am behind but i am catching up!! so these prompts very well could be angsty, but i wanted to pick something that could be kinda sorta fluffy or humorous
> 
> say hello to the vampire/werewolf au no one asked for but i wrote anydamnway

“Momo-chan, look that way real quick,” Ouma says, pointing.

“Fuck you, I’m not giving you _privacy_ or whatever so you can turn our boyfriend into a midday snack,” he growls back, his body kinda wrapped around Saihara in a protective sort of lounge.

Saihara’s nose deep into a novel, pretending as though his two boyfriends aren’t arguing over him for the umpteenth time. He’s just three pages away from the murder mystery reveal. The amount of dog-eared pages he’s left in _this_ paperback alone speaks to Saihara’s inability to finish anything with both of these monsters around.

Mere moments ago, Momota had been shapeshifted and quiet, snoozing soft and sanguinely with Saihara leaned up against his side. That is… until Ouma griped that he’d been getting hair all over the bed.

_We’ve all got to sleep here, Momo-chan! You can’t just get your filthy dog hair all over it!_

Now Momota lie on his side, his midsection molding around Saihara’s lower back as he continues his read, flipping pages with a licked finger. Every time Ouma throws Momota a dirty look, Momota’s hand fastens itself a smidge tighter around Saihara’s waist with unease. As accepting as he is of their little… arrangement, he still can’t bring himself to trust the little immortal sat beside him.

This does not bother Ouma, who would sooner choke than admit he’s fond of the rotten fleabag in the bed beside him. Really, the most attractive things about him are the things vampires already have in spades: fangs, a good sense of smell, and the ability to take a bullet to the brain and survive (so long as it’s not a certain color). That’s really the funnest thing: chopping Momota’s head off in his sleep only to watch him angrily reattach it with a _fuck you_ and a _piss off._

Oh yeah, and then he doubles down on the garlic knots for a few days. While they won’t kill Ouma, they do a good job at repelling him. Not because he’s a vampire, of course (he _really_ needs Momo-chan to know this). He just thinks they’re fucking nasty.

_Knots, huh? Momo-chan?_

Momota at present lifts his foot up, stomping his heel at full force straight into Ouma’s shoulder (who doesn’t budge an inch).

“We’re cuddling over here, find a different blood bank.”

Ouma winces, plugging his nose. His voice comes out all nasally and kinda like an underwater squid.

“Momo-chan, your feet _reek_ and your toenails are disgusting!!”

“Yeah?” Momota challenges unflinchingly. “Then go away.”

“You two aren’t even cuddling! Sai-chan’s just sitting here ignoring you.”

“He came and laid on me until you told me I couldn’t sit wolf on the bed. So who’s fucking fault is that?”

Flapping his hand back dismissively, Ouma scoots nearer to Saihara. Momota’s knee bends to accommodate.

“Details, details. _Anyways,_ part of our deal is that I protect him but also he has to provide me with something else, sometimes,” he coos, running his finger down Saihara’s jaw coquettishly; Momota squeezes Saihara’s sides and leans in close from the other side.

“Funny how I’m already doing that and I don’t need shit from him.”

Sighing, scoffing, tsking and groaning, Ouma theatrically presses his fingers to his eyebrows.

“Eeeevery time, it’s always like this with you, Momo-chan. Sai-chan _agreed_ to this. You can’t keep trying to speak up for him. You know he’s his own person, right?” he croons, planting a kiss against Saihara’s cheek that causes him to tense up slightly; his face turns a deeper red.

The wolf grimaces in disgust.

“Gross.”

Without warning, Momota spots a small red dot on the wall beyond Ouma’s head. It tickles the air, zooming in circles and attracting his eyes. Entranced by the sight, his head jostles soft with the motion, following it carefully. From the corner of his eyes, he spots Ouma’s hand shifting suspiciously.

He slaps the laser light out of Ouma’s hand.

“Fucking— _stop that!”_

Ouma guffaws with success.

“Look at you, little doggy, Momo-chan! You just can’t help it!”

Frowning, Momota turns his head away and shoves his cheek into his palm, upraised against the sheets.

His mind fixates on the sentence, ‘Sai-chan agreed to this.’

Yeah, yeah he knows. It’s not like he likes it. It’s not like he can do anything about it. As much as Momota loves Saihara, there’s nothing he can do to keep him alive but to protect him this way. There’s something different that vampires can do. It’s the one thing he can’t offer Saihara— immortality in a contract. So long as he shares his blood with Ouma, he will survive with him.

How great, how perfect, Momota thinks. Wonderful that he’s not necessary, that he can’t save Saihara, that he really _doesn’t_ have as much purpose in this relationship as he wished he had.

What good is Momota for if he can’t be a protector?

No one else really thought this but him, and even when the soft thud of the book’s closing echoes back into his head, Momota doesn’t turn around. Saihara rests it against the bed and takes a deep breath in careful.

“Ah-hem,” he says more than does. “Are both of you done?” he asks.

Momota does not reply and Ouma giggles as he nuzzles his nose in the crook of Saihara’s neck.

“I think so, Sai-chan!”

When his fangs sink in, Saihara squeezes Momota’s hand. Momota will not turn his way but still, thoughtfully rubs his thumb in circles against the back of his palm. The scent of the blood makes Momota’s stomach churn. It stains the inside of his nostrils and he gags, quietly.

Saihara winces and feels vertigo rippling up through his spine. The room spins. He leans further against Momota who only shifts to lay him down when all is done. Ouma snickers but also pardons himself only to snatch a bandaid and slap it down over his throat.

“Which do you want this time,” Ouma inquires, blood still staining his teeth. “PJ Masks or Trolls?”

Clicking his tongue in derision, Momota snatches one at random from the box, spilling them everywhere.

“Does it matter? Why can’t you buy normal fucking bandaids, you freak—”

“Hey!”

Ouma watches the slips of bandage clutter the floor, bending down to gather them up in his hands. When he’s upright once more, Momota’s placed it down over the wound and is kissing the side of Saihara’s face, velvety, wrapping his arms around tight and curling up to him. Tapping his foot, Ouma hums loudly.

“Hmph! I see how it is. Big bad vampire is the bad guy and you get to be the loyal little pooch who cuddles up on him and makes him feel _aaallll better.”_

“Would you knock it off and let him sleep?” Momota jabs, closing his eyes himself now, only feeling soothed of his anxiety when Saihara reaches up weakly to take Momota’s hand in his own.

His voice is a tad strained, but that’s perhaps why it carries much more weight when he makes demands of them.

“Stop griping,” he insists. “I need you both.”

Rolling his eyes, Ouma flops down on the other side of the bed, facing Saihara and also yanking a hand for himself to hold. Saihara smiles a little.

“There’s some things only one of you can do. You know I wasn’t going to live very long,” he reiterates, something that the both of them have heard too many times.

“Mhm,” Momota mumbles, though not vocalizing it well.

It’s alright because Ouma does a spectacular job at that.

“Of course, Sai-chan! If I hadn’t made you by little blood bank, you would’ve died much, _much_ earlier from your heart condition!”

It is certainly not a threat any longer but Momota’s grip tightens up defensively. Saihara pulls Momota’s hand to his mouth and plants a warm kiss into his knuckle, sending chills up every tendon in Momota’s arm. The werewolf hides his face in Saihara’s hair.

“Exactly,” Saihara says. “But you can’t go out during the day. I still have college, and a job… I need protection when it’s light out.”

“That’s where _I_ come in,” interrupts Momota, the boom of his voice driving a groan out of the vampire sidling up to Saihara’s side. “No monsters are fucking with you while I’m around.”

“Have you forgotten that we’re monsters, Momo-chan? Or do you think we’re exceptions to the rule?”

“Tch,” Momota scoffs. “I’m not a monster. Wolves aren’t monsters and neither are men. I just happen to sometimes be one or the other. _You_ on the other hand? Vampires are _freaks.”_

Ouma cackles smartly, burying his face in Saihara’s fingers.

“You’re soooo dumb. You really think you’re normal.”

“Sh-shut up!!”

Saihara reaches for each of their faces, pinching cheek hard between index and forefinger once he’s got the flesh in his hands. Both creatures flinch up and yelp. Saihara settles back down.

“Enough.”

The resulting groans lead into shuffling, and soon they both have surrounded Saihara from both sides, snuggling into his skin and enveloping him completely in their protection— in their love and in their rivalry. Some nights, the only thing that keeps Saihara from overheating in Momota’s grasp is the cool touch of Ouma’s hands, milky white and freezing cold. They feel like heaven against his cheeks and neck, where he tugs them to when he feels too warm and too trapped.

Other nights, the only thing that keeps Saihara from panicking over his health and blood loss is Momota cradling him gentle and immediate. He’s always willing to drop anything for him.

It’s truly heaven, to have them both.

Even if God should damn all three of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i say no one asked for it but shout outs to ao3 user corgasbord for encouraging aggressively that i write this


	5. two plus one minus one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> games/ _workout_ / **studying**
> 
> nearly caught up! sorry these are much smaller. kaito is pretty studious!
> 
> poor shuichi

Saihara spares a few uncomfortable glances between his boyfriend and his boyfriend’s boyfriend. Sat cross legged on Momota’s living room carpet, Saihara squeezes his ankles with both hands and waits patiently. It’s only been ten minutes or so now since he’s got up to tend to Ouma. Lord even knows why he’s here. Saihara hasn’t divined this yet. From what he can understand, Ouma came over uninvited, aware that Momota already had plans.

Narrowing his vision, Saihara pardons no ugly looks and watches as Ouma smirks smugly over Momota’s shoulder.

Ah, a little gremlin. Saihara should’ve pegged him as such.

“I just _can’t_ be bothered, Momo-chan, you have to understand. I have soooo many more important things to do,” Ouma says, straightening his arms against the dining room table as he kicks his legs back and forth.

He's dangling his head back and jostling around in his chair like a child. What a perfect little tantrum, Saihara thinks. Meanwhile, Momota stands hunched over, examining the textbook with his reading glasses on and speaking slower still.

“You _can_ be bothered. You’re just giving up because it’s a little bit hard,” he says.

“It’s not even hard. Don't make me laugh!”

Likely already accustomed to the forth and back of his boyfriend’s ramblings, Momota flips back through the notebook, riddled in math equations, until he finds one in particular. He points with his polished-purple thumbnail.

“Then what’s this? You answered that this polynomial has no solution.”

All of the mathematical jargon go in one ear and out the other to Saihara. His eyes peek back up at the coo-coo clock on the wall, thinking again about how it had been ten minutes now. The clock hangs like a bomb. It haunts Saihara's anxiety, resenting when it pops open every hour on the hour. It belonged to Momota’s grandfather, so understandably he can’t toss it.

Perhaps, Saihara thinks, this is how he should feel about Momota’s other boyfriend— he belongs to him, so understandably Saihara can’t just throw him from the window.

“Uh, yeah?” Ouma scoffs. “You can’t factor it.”

Tapping the page once more, Momota elbows Ouma.

“Yeah buuuut, don’t we know a little formula that can help us?”

God, neither Saihara nor Ouma enjoy when he sounds cheekier than an afterschool special.

Ouma drags his fingers down his face.

“I don’t have time to memorize that dumb equation.”

“Sure you do!” Momota suggests, tugging up a chair beside Ouma finally after ten minutes of standing over him.

Saihara closes his eyes.

Ah, he guesses their work-out is going to continue some time else in the future. Maybe sixty-seven years from now when Ouma finally grasps college algebra.

“Here, there’s a song they teach you on how to remember the quadratic formula,” says Momota gleefully, smiling with a sunshine that only blinds and annoys Ouma.

Sadly, Momota begins to sing in English to the tune of Row, Row, Row your Boat.

“A equals opposite B, plus or minus the square root! B squared minus 4 A C, divided by 2 A!”

Ouma claps and bounces in his seat with excitement. None of that made sense to him _at all._

“Momo-chan!! That was so good! Your singing has gotten much worse!”

_**Fwap!** _

Momota swiftly smacks the back of Ouma’s head with the rolled up notebook. Pouting, Ouma rubs the spot gingerly.

“Ow! Momo-chan—”

“Are you even paying attention!? Idiot… this is why you’re always asking me to do your work for you,” Momota chides, tapping the notebook against his restless knee.

Speaking up from across the room, Saihara clears the phlegm and frustration from his throat.

“Kaito… your song was in English.”

“Yeah?” Momota asks, evidently aware of himself. “You guys should at least know _that_ much English, right?”

The quiet that lingers delicately between all three of them puts a damper on Momota’s volume.

“No way… you guys don’t?”

“No?” argue Saihara and Ouma at the same time; for the most fleeting of seconds they both exchange glances, and Saihara pretends they didn't just harmonize in unison.

Laughing hearty and low, Momota pats Ouma’s back, rubbing his palm between his shoulder blades something affectionate.

“I’ll just have to tutor you in that too! You too, Shuichi—”

“By the way, Kaito,” he interrupts, molding his tone into a sound most neutral and not so aggressive. “Are you going to be coming back over here to help me with my curl-ups any time soon?”

Ouma squints some over Momota’s shoulder. Shifting in his seat to swivel and face Saihara again, Momota grins as though he hasn’t lost track of time in a manner most familiar. The bad part is that Saihara always feels his heart lift at the sight of it, no matter how annoyed he may be. He makes a meek smile back.

“Yeah, my bad, Shuichi. He just needed my assistance a little—”

“No, Momo-chan, wait!” cries Ouma, his arms wrapping tight around Momota’s own with a plea. “I’m just starting to get it, _please_ explain it some more.”

_Oh._ So that’s the game he’s playing.

Saihara’s eyelids fall to half-mast and his frown turns crooked. In a placating voice, one that Momota’s hardly ever used with Saihara, he scoots closer to Ouma and says, “hey, calm down— just… show me what else you need help with, alright?”

As Momota’s eyes scan equations, Ouma simpers wide at Saihara.

Yes, this is going to be a long day, Saihara thinks. He should’ve just asked Harukawa to work out. It’s his fault really— so bad on him for hoping he could’ve had a hot work out with his big, strong boyfriend and maybe had some one-on-one time after.

Ridiculous.

Instead, Saihara’s convinced if he never hears Row, Row, Row your Boat’s tune ever again, it’ll be too soon.


	6. loading memories from subspace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vacation/sleeping/ **seasons**
> 
> "you said you were only writing fluff" yea i lied. guess who took a fluffy day prompt and made it sad? meee
> 
> also give it up for day 6!! i'm all caught up now!

“Hey, Saihara,” Harukawa says softly; her voice sounds timid in a way it hasn’t in so long. “It’s snowing.”

And for the first time since those three survivors clambered out of the rubble and found the new world, Saihara can’t quite breathe right. His heart restricts tight around the one bullet shell still left in it— the sight of Momota’s grinning face, knowing he’d never get to see it etched in snow with coal, a carrot, and little sticks from the backyard.

He’d make one, wouldn’t he? A big snowman with the biggest stick arms he could manage. Or maybe… plain ones, kind ones.

In his head, Momota snatches Saihara’s hat off and plops it down on top of it.

 _It’s just like that story,_ he says, cheesing like a child. _If you put the magic hat on the snowman, he comes to life!_

Smiling strangely, Saihara would quiver through the cold just to watch Momota build a whole snow family. They’re lopsided and Ouma comes along just to kick them, but that’s part of the fun too. It’s part of the fun to see Ouma snatch his hat from off the snowman and make a run for it while Momota chases after. Saihara would follow their footprints into the forest and into the dark until he finds them on the ground, laughing at each other and crowded by earth.

Ouma builds a snow fort, says only _cute_ boys can come in. He’ll give Saihara a kiss and Momota will toss snowballs in envy. The way his fingertips turn pink and his knuckles crack with the cold are the only sensation Saihara feels when a ghost leaves kisses in his hair and near his cheeks. The way he wanders through the nothingness in search of their memory is sometimes all he has left. Sometimes he wonders if winters will get easier.

Couldn’t Momota come running, hop in his bed with glee and shout, _Shuichi, it’s snowing! It’s snowing! Come outside and look, it’s snowing!_

Couldn’t he see the childish mirth, the glitter in his eyes once more as he dances through the snowflakes? Momota Kaito was a snowflake, too unique for anyone else on the whole earth to imitate. It’s this that makes death so much more final— makes Danganronpa so much more complete.

There will never be another like him.

Saihara stares down at his fingers, taking in the strange patterns as the sun shines through what few leaves linger now.

There will never be another Ouma Kokichi either. Even in the deepest wood where he’d expect a trickster god long forgotten to find him, there’s only whispers from some part of his head he’s neglected and the footsteps he followed to get here— the footsteps he follows every day to get here.

The footsteps that Harukawa and Yumeno follow every morning to find him. Kneeling down at his level, Yumeno sounds strong. Her hand is warm and it squeezes Saihara’s powerfully.

“Saihara… they want you to come to breakfast.”

When he glances up at Harukawa, he knows that it’s not easy for her either. She doesn’t cry much anymore, not as though she ever could in the first place, but he feels strength in seeing how her eyes zero in on every snowflake that falls in her vision— looking for something like him.

Just like Saihara looks for him— looks for _them,_ looks for the pieces of the two boys who left him with holes he can’t ever fill.

But he doesn’t need to replace them, and even in healing… maybe he never will.


End file.
